….and all through the house,

not a creature …well, the boys are sleeping ….the dog is out…. ah, screw it, I can’t even get past the first line! hehe

So tomorrow morning, I will get up and head to the first of two buildings of U of M hospital.  My first visit is to nuclear medicine, where they will inject a dye into my leg to find the node that they need to remove and take x-rays or photos or something of said dye-injected leg.

By mid afternoon, I will be at my second building for the actual surgery (x2).  The surgery (-ies) will remove fairly large area around the mole that was originally removed to make sure there is no remaining melanoma in the surrounding cells; the second surgical area is wherever they find that node, but probably right in the crease of my leg.

Here, in no specific order, are my concerns:

1. That they will find additional cancer cells in either the surrounding area or the node (obviously)
2. That they will screw up and use steri-strips, thereby giving me hives
3. That they will either screw up, or be unable to find, an antibiotic that won’t cause an allergic reaction.
4. That I will be nauseous after the surgery (I don’t do well with feeling good after anesthesia)
5. That I won’t be able to use the crutches, thereby falling on my face and hurting the crap out of myself post-surgery.
6. That I won’t be able to move around effectively enough for Mike to go back to work on Monday.
7. That I’ll pass out from being STARVED for so many hours (and that I won’t be able to eat – see #4)

So I am nervous….cautiously optimistic….hoping for the best, preparing for the worst. Honestly, it doesn’t seem real. I mean, almost like it’s not a real cancer – seriously? a freaking mole?? How can that be serious?

Here’s the thing…I know it’s CANCER, but compared to what my cousin went through, it’s almost nothing.  He is a vision of strength; he has come so far in a year and I am amazed by him.  I’m not discounting my own experience, but any person that can go through 13 hours of surgery to have a tumor removed from his brain and go back to work as a firefighter has my utmost respect.

Alas, it is still a fairly major medical procedure and I do truly appreciate all of the thoughts, prayers, good mojo, whatever that you all are sending out there for me.

I’ve got my iphone loaded with games, music and videos (Alias, I’m looking at you to get me through this!).  I intend to tweet as I go, lean on my love who will be spending the day with me in waiting rooms (but at least HE gets to eat and drink!), and keep everyone updated.  I have a stack of magazines waiting by the couch and Canada Dry in my car (my go-to sick drink).

See ya’ll after!

xoxo

My friend, Sunshine, and I, go out to dinner once a month to catch up and get out. Yesterday, she called and we decided to go out tonight – but before dinner, we were going to go donate blood at our local Red Cross center. It had been the requisite 56 days for her; I can’t remember the last time I gave. Appointments were made. I was looking forward to finally giving – my mom {sheepish} works for the Red Cross and always gives me a hard time for not donating {/sheepish} and it’s truly such an easy thing to do to help.

We got there early and read the warnings and laminated booklet with all of the questions – have you been out of the country? have you taken any of these medications? did you ever live in any of the 34 countries? Then signed our names and went to wait.

So there are blood services people who check people in – they take them into little rooms, check their temperatures, verify identity, check iron levels, blood pressure and re-ask all the questions. The rooms are stark; the blood services person I got? Not all that friendly.

The visit started good enough – she asked my name, asked for id, verified that I knew the information on my id {SIDE NOTE: do people actually fake identity so they can give blood??}, verified that I knew I was female (was totally trying not to laugh) and where I lived. Then she stuck a paper thermometer under my tongue, pricked my finger to check for iron levels and took my blood pressure. Then frowned. Then typed in big numbers, frowned again, and asked if I had a history of high blood pressure.

Sometimes this adoption thing sucks, yo

She checked my bp with the “more accurate” cuff {yeah, don’t be afraid of using that the first time, eh?}, and still, numbers were too high. Meanwhile, my tongue is starting to be chopped up by the damn paper thermometer, so I pull it out to speak. She’s printing paperwork, telling me I can’t donate and I still had that damn thermometer in my mouth!!

Apparently, with high blood pressure, giving them blood would be “dangerous”. No more information was offered. I was handed a piece of paper, told to check back another time and dismissed.

And beyond disappointed.

With the process, with her lack of compassion and explanation, with myself.

I guess I had been waiting for a sign; something to kick my ass into gear to start eating better and exercising regularly.

Denial to give blood at the Red Cross beats a heart attack or stroke or something else, I guess.

Tomorrow I will exercise, one way or another. And then on Friday? I’ll worry about Friday. One day at a time, I’ll get in better shape, get healthier.

One day at a time.

Dammit.

I can’t seem to turn if off lately. I’m having trouble sleeping, and then when I do fall asleep, I sleep like the dead and can’t wake up. Let’s dive right in, shall we?

First, my business. I don’t really get it, but we’re super busy and have no cash. There is a serious cash-flow problem in my office and I don’t quite know what to attribute it to. According to Wall Street, we’re in a recession, but I’m in Michigan, so we’re way ahead of the curve on that one. That said, we’re busy. So busy, in fact, that we need more help, but I can’t afford to add anyone to the payroll. I can say all day that it’s old debt from when we lost an insurance company for a year and bought out of our franchise (and it is), and I can complain about the absurdly, ridiculously, atrocious cost of employee health care (yikes!), and I can whine about the cost of goods going up and the reimbursement from insurance companies going down (and down and down…). But alas, that doesn’t pay my bills. And bills I have. Up the wazoo. And I don’t know how to get them all paid. I found a little leeway in the checkbook last week and caught up on those really important things (taxes, rent) and then I got another huge bill due on the 15th. Yes, it came in the mail on the 11th. Sure, I can pay that by then – my employees don’t need the money! </sarcasm> The big bills always come due during payroll week. Always.

It’s funny, when I got into this owning my own business thing, I was more worried about staff issues (because they are never-ending) and patient problems. Things were so damn smooth for the first 6 years, even with the aforementioned problems, that it never occurred to me that it would get worse. Dude, I was a marketing major with a passion for about 20 other things before my dad offered me the opportunity. Numbers and money have never been my strength, but I’ve learned and obviously, still have more to learn. So this money thing hangs like a cartoon anvil above my head and I have to get over it. I’ve got to be proactive. Although I’m not sure where else to go or what else to do. Apparently, even though my business is a corporation, my personal credit is more important than the business credit. And since Mike and I have incurred an absurd amount of debt over the years…well, even though we’re working hard at paying off our debt, that doesn’t impress anyone when it comes to my business. <SIGH> Just the mere thought of money and bills and all of that literally makes my stomach hurt. I keep reminding myself that it will all be ok, that everything will work out, but I’m very close to not being able to believe myself anymore. It’s like little panic attacks randomly throughout my day.

Sometimes I wish I could just be a stay at home mom with a part-time job. Owning the place means it’s never really out of my thoughts. I mean, really, I stop in all the time, I just wrote out a deposit at 9pm, and last night was working on insurance claims. It’s impossible to let go when your livelihood depends on the place. <SIGH> And the mama guilt that comes with needing to think about it? Killer. Hell, I even find my mind wandering to it when I’m reading Goodnight Moon! And that’s not fair. Tuesday I get to spend my day there and get as much accomplished as possible so that I can think about it just a little less.
——————-

What else? I’m going to take a cue from a fellow blogger and write some letters. I know they won’t be as good or funny as hers, but why not?

Dear Son,

Seriously? The pooping issues? Getting old. REALLY OLD. Just sit on the toilet, for crying out loud. It WILL come out, I promise. You have to be patient. I know it hurts. I know. But the longer you hold it in, the worse it gets. It’s a vicious cycle. I’m not really sure what else to do – your diet is fine. How anyone who drinks as much watered juice as you do could be constipated, I don’t know, but I feel your pain. Next up? Prune juice, which I know you won’t drink; suppositories which you will never allow (thanks), or other stool softeners. Really, this is all fun, but I truly think that if you just sat that skinny little butt of yours down on the toilet, you’d be fine.

Love, Mom

—–

Dear Scrapbook Supplies,

I know. I feel you looking at me when I stop in to check the fax machine or drop my junk mail next to you. I feel your pain. Your beautiful papers, your fun embellishments, all those adhesives…and the new Cricut cartridge that I have yet to play with? Soon….I will match your fabulousness with all of those pictures I have stacked up and create magic. Until then, I miss you too.

—-

Dear Sewing Machine,

Quit calling my name! Come on! I know we’re still in the discovery phase of our relationship, and that you’re still very lovey-dovey, but please! Keep it down, the scrapbook supplies are right across the room and they are very jealous. Besides, you are very time consuming and at times, overwhelming. I need a little space (even though I don’t want it!)

—-

Dear Hubby,

Um…you not only fell asleep before 9, but you fell asleep on MY side of the bed and you’re snoring. And when I said, “well, I’m off to clean and do the dishes” what I meant was “Now that the boys are in bed, get your ass downstairs and help me clean up so we can both relax.” Sorry I wasn’t more clear. And while we’re on the subject, I know you always say you’ll do chores if I tell ask you to, but we’ve been married for almost 13 years and I’m pretty certain that you noticed once or twice while I was away that the house is not self-cleaning and that we do not employ little cleaning elves that come in the middle of the night. Why is it that I have to ask for help? And why is it that when you see me cleaning angrily while you are playing video games that you still have to ask me what’s wrong? Help me keep the house clean, dammit! I want to play, too!

Love, Me

—–

Dear House,

Why *aren’t* you self-cleaning? Sometimes I feel almost panicked at the thought of cleaning you one more time. Any help you could give would be appreciated.

Love, Me

—-

Dear Body,

You do realize that you’re not attractive anymore, right? And that muffin tops belong on muffins?

Love, Soul

—-

Dear Subconscious,

Seriously? I mean, seriously? How many years are you going to throw the nightmares of my husband leaving me / loving someone else / not looking back / at me? And why is my ex-best friend that I haven’t had a conscious thought of in years ALWAYS the evil woman stealing my man away? Because I never forgave her for real for being a first class beyotch right before my wedding? Well, get over it. Apparently, I can’t so I need you to. The dreams piss me off and I’m sick of their realism. So stop.

Thanks, Sleepy Me

—-

Dear Dorkdog,

I love you. You have always been a fabulously wonderful dog and I am hurting inside watching you waste away. I wish I knew if you were really suffering or if the weight loss is the only thing. I have no idea if you’re in pain or not. I don’t want you to be in pain; I don’t want you to suffer. You’ve been such a faithful companion, so loving and sweet and I can’t stand the thought of not having you around, but more so, I can’t stand you hurting or being so sad. Every once in a while you show your old self, playing and being silly, but more often than not, you’re sleeping these days. I can’t read those big brown eyes of yours and I’m afraid the day is coming soon when I will have to say goodbye. And I’m sorry if I failed you in any way. You’ll always be my first baby; my fooby.

Love, Mommy

—-

Just to even it out a bit, Preston and I were laughing so hard tonight while he was supposed to be going to sleep that I felt like a kid at a sleep-over. I kept telling him “shhh…we’re gonna get in trouble!” Honestly, once he gets giggling, I can’t help but join in.